


Countdown

by SaturdayProphet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels don't sleep, Angst, Dreams, I don't know where Sam went and I'm the author of the thing, Implied Relationship, Other, Weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturdayProphet/pseuds/SaturdayProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Cas saw Dean in his dream, he didn't know who he was. ((I really suck at summaries.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so it's a gift for someone ... And tumblr never let me post it. Because submissions are apparently not liking my writing style. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this.

The first time Cas saw Dean in his dreams, he didn't know it was him. He was back in Heaven, in these early days, when he was just a kid, running around with glitter in his hands and a lollipop - offered by Gabriel - in his mouth. He was barely seven years old. A lot of people say that you began to remember important things from this age.  
Cas thought it wasn't true.

The young boy was sitting at the very border between two Heavens: the Seventh, where he lived, as a young Seraph, and the Sixth, where the Archives were and still are. Wearing the official fledgling blue toga, he was watching down to see if there was someone below. Archives were reserved to some of the highest angels, and often left like this without anyone in to watch them.  
Castiel remembered counting the sparkles of Grace falling from his hands, as little drops. One. Two. Three. It looks like rain. Four, Five, Six. Six is a bad number. Seven is better. Eight, Nine, Ten. He had asked Raphael, the only angelic doctor here about his Grace getting away.  
Raphael had just looked at him with pain in his eyes and their beautiful wings down, before trying to seal his Grace into his body.  
It hurt.  
  
It hurt and it didn't work.  
The young angel suddently wasn't alone anymore, siting on the edge of his home. A shadow, looking like Michael - same eyes, same smile (because sometimes, the Regent smiled) and same warmth - sat near him.

"It's not supposed to be today... Usually, you're here on thursdays. And saturdays. "  
It was true that the little angel came here to watch the Archives on Thursdays and Saturdays. He shrugged, his little voice managing a soft answer. He was holding a blue piece of fabric against him, carefully, trying not to make it fall.  
"It's peaceful here. "

The figure at his sides just smiled. A melancholic, sad smile. Before the youngest angel could ask him why his weird Grace was shining so bright while he was so bad in his head, why he looked like Michael or why he didn't have any set of wings, he felt a hand on his shoulder.  
"Castiel... We need to talk."  
  
Cassiel, the forgotten archangel, kneeled down to look at his little brother with his head tilted. Everything around was grey. Grey floor, grey skies, grey Grace sliding down his little fingers. Everything was grey, except Michael's figure, not even looking at him.  
Cassiel had cried. Tears were still rolling down his grey cheeks, and his voice was nothing more than a pure whisper, stuck into his own throat. Cassiel was the one supposed to watch. Only to watch.  
And he had blood on his hands.  
He explained to a young boy that his beloved brother, the one who took care of him when he couldn't fly, the one who cuddled him and protected him, the one who was here to see him walk and to prevent him to step on a fish, on Earth, he explained that this brother was now gone.  
He couldn't tell him why his brother fell, or who pushed him out of Heaven.  
  
"I suppose Sam isn't coming today."

Years, centuries, thousands of years later, Castiel still remembered. He sat on the border between two parts of Heaven, gazing down at the Archives as he counted the drops falling. One, Two, Three. _I'm going to Hell, tonight._ Four, Five, Six _. I still don't like this number._ Seven is better. Eight, Nine, Ten...  
_You're here again._

The seventh Heaven had been isolated and abandonned for centuries. Cassiel's voice was now long gone, an archangel silenced by his mistake.  
But still, Castiel was there, sitting on the border of his Heaven, trying to find courage to execute the mission the others gave him.  
And to find this courage, he just thought about his brother who fell.  
Because tonight, he's going to Hell.

"Wish you were here."

  
**~O~**

The second time Cas saw Dean in his dreams, he thought he was real.  
Everything was made to be real: the sun burning his skin, the wind gently blowing through his hair, the smell of old leather and alcohol, the sound of his breath near his ear. Dean was there. His hands were resting sagely on his own thighs, siting on a bench in front of a cliff. The grey grass, the grey water far from them, grey clouds and grey skies. Grey rocks, just at the edge, about to fall. Everything had faded to grey, except Dean.  
  
"It's not supposed to be today... Usually, you're here on thursdays. And saturdays. "

Everything was made to be real: the sound of his voice, lighting sparkles into Castiel's heart. His green eyes, worryingly staring at him as he walked to sit next to him. The warmth of his hand, close to his fingers, _so close, too close_.  
Everything was real, Castiel believed it.  
"It's peaceful here.  
\- I suppose Sam isn't coming, today."

His name was barely a whisper, as always. Sam's name had always been a whisper, since this day.  
Since this day, Sam had been a whisper in Dean's mouth, a contained distress in his soul.  
Everything was made to be real. The broken voice of the Winchester, looking at the grey sea down the cliff. The silence between every sentence, and his heart hardly beating anymore.  
Everything was made to be real.  
  
Cas wrapped his fingers around Dean's hand. Everything was made here to be real. everything was real. Their hands intertwined. The tears at the corner of the human's eyes, not even falling. Dean's too strong, even in this distorded reality that dreams are.  
Everything was real, so painfully real. Cas could count the freckles on Dean's face, could feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin, could hear the silence screaming his brother's name. How much pain, how much anger and sadness could the silence bear?  
  
Reality was grey. Everything was grey. Everything was real. But Dean didn't seem to hear him telling him he'll be there for him. Didn't hear his whispers, didn't feel his arms around him, hugging him.  
Cas only heard his soul screaming his pain, burning so brightly that even the grey stars, above the dark clouds, weren't glowing enough.  
  
"Wish you were here."  
Everything was made to be real.  
And unfortunately, everything was. Rain began to fall on them. __  
One, two, three. _Drops are washing away the grey._ Four, five, six. _Six is a bad number._ Seven is better. Eight, nine, ten...  
_Is this my tears or the rain?_

**~O~**

 

The third time Cas saw Dean in his dreams, it  was a mistake. It was his first real dream since a long time, maybe perhaps the first. Other had been fragments of memories, flashing behind his eyes as he closed them when he had tried to get some rest.  
Here, it was a real dream.  
  
There was no meaning, no rule and no exit. It was his immortality tied up with the thickest rope of broken dreams, it was his feelings smashing away his rationnal thoughts, it was Heaven and it was Earth. It was his old home and his new. It was eveything he once feared mixed up with all the good things he had done. It was like dying to just keep breathing, yelling to hear silence.  
And it was exhausting.  
  
Dean was in the first dream. He was siting, as he had always been, looking more like a shadow than anything else ... Except for his eyes. They still were that green, unimaginable and wonderful color. Like something Cas could handle on, in the madness happening around.  
Dreams are a tricky world. Dean was there, and it was all Cas wanted to know. He just wanted to be near. He just wanted to get to him, to take his hand, to make sure Dean was real and none of this around was. But every step, every breath led us farther away.  
  
His mouth were mouthing words Cas didn't understand. Around them, around him, there was nothing else but chaos. Explosions and pilars disapearing into massive flames. Sound of swords against swords, blood dripping down someone's body, smell of burnt papers and burned wings. Dean turned around, quickly. His eyes were reflecting fire. Fight. Run. Get safe. Anywhere. Fight. Blood.  
 Castiel tried to reach him.  
Powerless.  
Around him, even the fire was grey. Grace began to roll down his fingers, falling to lighten up his steps. He needed to reach Dean.  
He tried to speak. He tried to yell.  
  
"Dean ! "  
But he couldn't be heard. He's entirely covered by his own Grace, now - _the bound put by Raphael must be broken_ -, and he's running, trying to catch his breath, trying to fly, to touch with his fingertips the mere shadow of the Winchester, siting not even really that far from him.  
"Dean ... "  
But no one heard the name.  
And no one saw him fall, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch his life. No one was here to saw him close his eyes, trying to wake up.  
No one he ever cared about was here to hear a little child's voice counting.  
_One, Two, Three, I think it's time for me to flee. Four, Five, Six, always a bad number, Seven is better. Eight, Nine, Ten ...  
Who will wake me up, then? _

**~O~**

"It's not supposed to be today... "

Dean wasn't in a dream, anymore. He was sitting alone, in a graveyard. His back against a grave, little violet flowers growing free around it. The sun was setting, minute after minute. It was almost nine, after all.  
Dean is sitting. Everything around him is colored by the rich, powerful orange color of the sunrays. Everything but him.  
"Usually, you're here on thursdays and saturdays."  
Dean chuckled. A sad, broken chuckle. He was wearing a dark red shirt, his sleeves rolled up, though it seemed grey.  
Everything seemed grey, now. His hands, his arms, the thing on it ... His breath, also, it seemed like it was grey smoke getting out of his mouth.  
Everything was real.  
Everything was grey.  
  
"It's peaceful, here."  
This graveyard was peaceful. Dean could admit it. No one around. No one to tell him how much he had fucked up, letting him alone a single night.  
Angels don't sleep.  
That's what he had learnt, too late. Angels don't sleep.  
  
The sun's totally down, now.  
"I suppose Sam isn't coming, today".  
  
His head was now resting against the cold stone, unamed. Just a wing, some symbols and an abandonned feather on the ground. Nothing more. Death was just a feeling, after all. A painful, endless feeling.

Dean had been too late. One night, he had woken up in the middle of the night, startled, sweating as if he were just getting rid of a bad dream, with Cas' name on his lips.  
  
At the thought, he clenched his fists. He had run to his bedroom. He had often questionned a part of himself about what he could possibly had missed, why now the angel were gone.  
The only answer was in sleep.  
Angels don't sleep.  
  
The only dream an angel will ever get in his life will be his last. A death dream. Every angel knew that.   
But Dean didn't. No one did.  
So Dean talked and yelled, and his soul burnt and screamed.

   
Now, in this graveyard, Dean closed his eyes, a weird shade of dark tainting them. He curled up against the stone, and whispered.

"Wish you were here."  
If it worked for his angel, why wouldn't it for a demon? And, as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness, he could hear Cas voice sing:  
_One, Two, Three, I think it's time for you to flee. Four, Five, Six, always a bad number, Seven is better. Eight, Nine, Ten ...  
Never wake us up again._


End file.
